Never Much of a Letter Writer
by The Cake Genius
Summary: While Tom was sulking, he wrote letters to Indigo he never sent... One-shot. Takes place during Permanent Rose. Disclaimer: The Casson Family is Hilary McKay's, do you think I would put Tom with Rose!


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Never Much of a Letter Writer

Tom had never been much of a letter writer. He simply wasn't good at it; wasn't good at writing down how he _felt_, for God's sake. It was easier with music. Music didn't demand any words.

He was, however, very good at sulking. He had been doing a lot of that this summer. His grandmother had remarked on it several times: "Tom, stop sulking. I'm sure those Casson kids will write soon."

"Those Casson kids" were only the half of it. It was one Casson kid that Tom was sulking about over all the others.

Indigo. Wonderful, musical, patient-and-kind-to-the-ends-of-the-earth Indigo, who had always been especially patient and kind to Tom.

But didn't care enough about Tom to write.

Why Indy would be mean, Tom didn't know. The two had been best friends in England, so Indigo must have liked him (although not possibly as much as Tom had liked Indigo), and if Indy had liked him, he would have written, because he was also fiercely loyal to a fault. All of the Cassons were. And even if he hadn't liked him after all, his Indy was still too nice. Tom couldn't fathom it.

So there he was, lying on his back with one leg crossed over to hold a guitar that still felt awkward to hold, frustrated with Indigo and frustrated with the world, when he decided to write to Indigo himself. Just to make sure. Not because he cared about Indigo, or anything. Just to check. And stuff.

He heaved himself up and snatched a pencil stub and a piece of paper and tried his best.

_Indigo,_

_Why won't you write to me? I miss you-_

No. Tom scratched that last part out.

_Indigo,_

_Why won't you write to me?_

_Is it because I threw a ball at your head when I met you? Sorry about that, if it helps, but I know you're not the type to hold a grudge. But I thought we were friends-_

And now he was sounding melodramatic. Tom crumpled up the paper and took out a new one. He wasn't about to give up. Not for Indy.

_Indigo,_

_Hi. I'm writing a letter to you. (I mean, duh, obviously), but it's probably not very good. In fact, it's most definitely bad. But I'm mad at you. Because you won't write to me and I don't know if you hate me but-_

This was also discarded.

_It's dark out, Indy. It's so dark, like the sky is sad..._

Crumpled as well.

_Please please please please write to me please I miss you and you're making me _

_sad-_

_You know what, I hate you! I hate you and your stupid sweetness and your whole stupid family!_

No! Tom threw this away too. The fight leaked out of his system and he sighed. He didn't want to say anything bad about Indigo. Indigo was perfect. Perfectly perfect, like a king among peasants. He grabbed yet another peice of paper and started writing down all the the things he liked about Indigo.

_I like your name. It suits you, and it sounds really beautiful._

_I like the way you play guitar. You might talk to someone (say, Rose), while you're doing it in a rambling, day-dreamy sort of way but you always keep playing, your fingers drawing out a melody._

_I like your fingers. They're so long and slender and graceful, just like the rest of you._

_I like the way your hair falls in your eyes. It looks like the ink on music notes._

_I like your skin. It's nice._

_I like how when you look right at someone, your eyes never leave their face. They're such a peircing blue, Indy. A blue you could drown in._

_I like how there's always a kind of fierce gentleness in your eyes. You're so, so brave, Indy, braver than anyone I know, so how are you so gentle? So kind and weirdly patient?_

_But I liked it too when you beat up the rabble. That was pretty cool, and I was so proud of you when you said it in that shrugging way of yours._

_I like how only you could find me._

_I like how it felt when you held my hand._

_I like renaming the stars with you. I was so happy right then. It was like my favorite song, but with people instead of words._

_I like you. A lot. I just really really like you, and I miss you like crazy, and I wish you'd write to me-_

Tom stopped abruptly and reread what he'd just written. His stomach gave a lurch when he reallized that he had just admitted... well, he didn't know what he'd admitted, but it was suddenly making him very scared. He tore the letter into little shreds, and then even littler shreds and stuffed it all into the bottom of his trash can.

He took a deap, shaky breath and started what he hoped would be an acceptable and normal letter.

_Dear Indigo,_

_What's up? I called, but I only got Rose. I sort of wanted to talk to you. You know, just cause it's different talking to an eight-year-old girl than a thirteen-year-old boy. Even though Permanent Rose is pretty neat. But still._

_How are you doing on the guitar? I hope you like it._

_Your Friend,_

_Tom_

Tom didn't even bother rereading it. He just took his pencil and scribbled it out until the entire page was black. Because black was how he felt. Black as night, black as a black hole, black as Indigo's clothes and hair.

So he climbed out his window to sit on the roof and searched the night sky for Indigo's star. When he found it, he stared at it until his eyes began to blur and he had to blink several times to make them right again.

_Indigo... I like you. A lot. I just really really like you, and I miss you like crazy, and I wish you'd write to me..._

While halfway around the world, another boy's long, slender fingers drew out a melody on Tom's old guitar, and assured to himself more than to his sister, "he was never much of a letter writer."


End file.
